


Let Me Count the Bruises

by TentacleVamp



Series: bang bang she shot me down [1]
Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Female Thomas Shelby, Genderswap, Male Grace Burgess, Period-Typical Sexism, Slurs, Unrequited Love, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-27
Updated: 2018-01-27
Packaged: 2019-03-10 05:41:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13496016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TentacleVamp/pseuds/TentacleVamp
Summary: Polly says she’s soft.“You’ve always worn your heart on your sleeve,” she’s said, over a glass of scotch and on her third cigarette, “Be careful of who you show it to.”Aunt Polly has always been harder on her than the other boys, even Ada. She guesses it’s because she knows how alike they both are. How much they care, how much they give. And how much they want things they shouldn’t want.Because, as long as she can remember, Toma Shelby has wanted to be a Peaky Blinder.





	Let Me Count the Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> Well I'm at it again by genderswaping and getting myself into TV shows that break my heart.
> 
> A basically re-telling of the whole show with fem!Tommy (and male!Grace). This story in particular focuses on season one. Hope you'll enjoy it all the same!
> 
> (this was meant to be an one-shot that turned into its own novel. kill me now)
> 
> FaceCanon:  
> Fem!Tommy: Olivia Wilde  
> Male!Grace: Dacre Montgomery

Polly says she’s soft.

“You’ve always worn your heart on your sleeve,” she’s said, over a glass of scotch and on her third cigarette, “Be careful of who you show it to.”

Aunt Polly has always been harder on her than the other boys, even Ada. She guesses it’s because she knows how alike they both are. How much they care, how much they give. And how much they want things they shouldn’t want.

Because, as long as she can remember, Toma Shelby has wanted to be a Peaky Blinder.

When her older brother found her with a peaky flat cap she was only eight. He promptly threw it to the ground and told her to _stay out of it_. She didn’t. Hats were easy things to find. Stitching up razor blades even easier. And Toma didn’t stray. No matter how many times she caught Arthur with a broken nose, washing blood off his clothes that wasn’t his.

Eventually, through much dedication on Toma’s part, her brother figured out he had a better chance of protecting her by standing alongside his sister. Rather than watching her from across the fence.

She was always quicker than him anyway. People underestimated her. The little gypsy girl with soft eyes. Not knowing how many moves and ends she’s already thought of. As it were, Toma pointed, and Arthur went.

At twelve she wore lapel overcoats and button waistcoats. A long dark grey skirt to match her leather boots. Boys called her Tommy, laughing. She used that, too. Freddie Thorne was the first boy she ever hit. (Her first everything, really.) They still called her Tommy. But they saw her as their own now, not a girl playing pretend.

 

Aunt Polly still called her soft.

Toma liked horses. She liked watching them run. Enjoyed a ride on the saddle. You can’t think much of anything when you’re riding one. It’s just you and the horse. If your mind strays, you might end up faster on the ground than you’d climbed in. It numbed most of it. The little things she sees, the little things she picks on people. Those little thoughts ruminating inside her little head that never come to an end.

She helped the horses too. Took care of their fur, made sure they were well fed, shushed them when startled. They are the gentlest of creatures, once you’ve earned their trust. Toma was at the most peaceful in their presence.

“She’s going to end up working in the stables, you’ll see,” Charlie kept saying, and Polly kept agreeing.

They weren’t that far off. Toma had considered the option, once or twice. Might even have admitted to herself she enjoyed her hobby far more than bookmaking. But of course, then there was the War.

Tommy being Tommy, she couldn’t leave well enough alone. As soon as they went searching for patriotic women, brave women, women who would gladly give their lives to save the ones fighting at the front, Toma put her name on the volunteering form.

Polly almost ripped her head off when she found out.  “You’re going away too, are you? Go stitch some poor bastard’s arm and get yourself _fucking blown off_? It isn’t enough this War is going to take both Arthur and John, it has to take _you_ too?”

Toma didn’t say a word till she was done. After bottles had been shattered and chairs destroyed. After she had screamed herself hoarse. Aunt Polly, red faced and with glistering eyes. As worried as she was completely mad. The two always seemed to go together.

She got up from her chair, kissed her aunt on the cheek and said, “You’ll take care of the business till we get back, won’t you? Because we _will_ be back.” Polly stared her down. Toma smiled. “Shelby’s have endured much shit, Pol. What’s one war, yeah?”

She was still angry. But her aunt did kiss everyone goodbye when the time came. They all promised they’d be back. Good as new. “Don’t say things you have no idea of,” she had said. But they _all_ came back, didn’t they? No lost limbs. No blinded eyes. No clear scars.

Yet, Polly knew. She knew something had changed the minute they stepped foot into their home.

 

Toma thought she knew desperation. Living where she lived. With the name she carried. Half gypsy blood and all.

But you don’t really know desperation till you have to boil murky water to have something to drink. When tools can’t be thrown away when you finish saving a soldier’s leg, because there’s no other tools to use. Forced to watch as fellow nurses fell from complete exhaustion, and not get back up.

Toma did get used to something, though. Death. Inevitable, really. Each corner she took there was the color red, soaking up white sheets, another body being dragged to the pile.

It made her resolution easier. Put things into fucking perspective. Billy Kimber. And his fucking racecourses. If the Peaky Blinders knocked him down the gates would open up and they would reap the rewards. A new path would appear. A path for something greater. And Toma _wanted_ it.

Maybe she should thank her King, after all.

(She did thank Freddie Thorne when he pushed her down to the ground, as enemy forces evaded their camp. Took a bullet for her, right through his shoulder. Almost too close to his beating heart. Toma took whatever she could get from Freddie. This was no different.)

 

Toma still liked horses. She has always been good with them. Nothing changed after she came back from the War. The horses were still the same. There just was another type of horse she had to deal with.

 

Poor Danny Owen, who still had the War running through his head. Toma told her men to hold him down while she spoke to him. “You’re home, Danny. You’re home. You’re not in France. You’re not whizz-bang. Danny, _you’re a man_. You’re a human being. You’re all right. _You’re all right_.”

He always looked so guilty afterwards. Staring up at her with teary eyes and a deep frown. “I’m so sorry, Miss Shelby.” Toma always told him to freshen up and go home. As gentle as she could. Caring and thoughtful soothed his outbursts.

 

Next it was the one and only Freddie Thorne. The communist. The war hero. The man who filled poor men with fantasies so he could make himself feel bigger.

“You’re the law around here now, Tommy, aren’t you?”

In those times it was best to ignore Freddie. Pretend they hadn’t been something more than they showed. Toma knew she had always intimated him. It just took a decade and a World War for Freddie to be open about it.

“Look at you, Tommy. Just fucking _look_ at you. What the hell happened, eh? How did you become your father?”

That’s the thing about Freddie. He had gotten too close. To the Shelby’s. To Toma. For that reason he knew _exactly_ where to hit. Her father had been a sore subject since he walked out on them. With a full briefcase and no shred of remorse.

Toma took a deep breath. Unclenched the whiskey glass and set it on the table. Walked out.

If she had stayed Freddie Thorne would have ended up without an eye. Or they would have ended up fucking at the back of the bar. Neither outcome satisfied Tommy Shelby. Indifferent response would do.

 

Arthur Shelby. Bless his heart. She loves him. Would die for her older brother in a heartbeat. And he would do the same. She _knows_ it. But Toma also knows what he is. Rage is blistering at his fingertips, always itching for an excuse to get out. Throw somebody across the room. Beat their face to a bloody pulp.

He got into the business _not_ because of the rewards of such life. _No._ Not for the money or the status. _Getting_ into the business was its own reward. He liked the fighting. The drinking. The fucking. The killing.

That’s why, very, _very_ early on, she made it clear she was the one doing the thinking around here. “So you don’t have to.” She explained, as slowly as she could. Arthur doesn’t like fast movements. Sets him on edge.

In their meetings she stands her ground. Tells Arthur what she knows from the information that’s on their disposable. The Chief Inspector, the man responsible for clearing the IRA out of Belfast. That’s the man who’s come to Birmingham.

She doesn’t move when his eyes glare right through her. “And why didn’t you tell me?”

“I’m telling you.” Her face neutral and tone still.

 _It’s not his fault_ , Toma reasons with herself, _men like Arthur never get used to knowing they aren’t meant for some things. It’s in their nature to fight for dominance. To prove something. To themselves, mostly. Even when it’s clear it’s their little sister who knows which path to march to. Yeah. God forbid then._

Relaxed and confident. That’s what works for Arthur.

 

Aunt Polly is her own grand subject.

Toma tells her about the massive weaponry her men accidentally stole. “I’m guessing my men were drunk,” she says to Polly, sitting at the bench in the church she always insists they go to. “They picked up the wrong fucking crate.”

Twenty five Lewis machine guns. Ten thousand rounds of ammunition. Fifty semi-automatic rifles. Two hundred pistols with shells. All bound for Libya.

The slap comes when it is revealed Tommy Shelby did not threw them away. She’s keeping them in the stables. Out of the rain. The guns hadn’t been greased yet.

Polly tells her this is _why_ the cop from Belfast has come to Birmingham. Puts in definite terms that Toma _will_ hang if they ever find out she sold them to someone who had use to them.

“Dump them somewhere the police can find them. Maybe if they know they haven’t fallen into the wrong hands this _might_ blow over.”

Toma tells her she’ll talk to Charlie and he will dump the weapons in three days, after the full moon. Nods as Polly says she’s doing the right thing.

Tommy Shelby lies. She lies and lies. Because, if you can’t change Polly Gray’s mind _now_ then you _never_ will. Deception works for her.

 

If somebody wants something back bad enough, they _will_ pay for it. That’s the way of the world. And they want it _bad_. Otherwise, they wouldn’t have recruited Protestant Irishmen to do their dirty work.

Charlie calls her mad. Tommy is unwavered.

(He has always looked out for her, as a father. God knows what he thought of her real one. He never has forgiven Arthur Shelby Sr. for what he did to his sister. Broken her heart. And taken everything till she was merely a shell of what she once was. They don’t talk about him much.)

Little girls have to grow up someday. Have to make big boy decisions if they want to move up in the world.

Danny Owen kills an Italian under one of his psychotic episodes. The man’s brothers demand his death in retaliation. Toma uses this, too. Let’s them think the brain matter on her face is of Danny’s and not of sheep. Tells Charlie to explain to Danny what he has to do to thank Tommy Shelby’s mercy. Makes him a Peaky Blinder on the way to London. Buries some of the stolen guns in his false grave.

“You have your mother’s common sense. And your father’s devilment. I see them fighting. Let your mother win.” Aunt Polly told Toma.

Toma likes to think they aren’t fighting. They’re just discussing which ways they work best together.

 

There’s an angel singing at The Garrison Pub.

Said angel is a man. A pretty man. With golden hair and soft blue eyes just like Toma. He sings and everyone listens. Maybe it’s because it’s clear he doesn’t belong there. Too clean. Too nice. Or maybe it’s his voice alone that is worth of such standing ovation.

Toma stares. She stares and isn’t sure if she should trust this holy apparition of a man.

Her heart has never strayed. Dangerous men always took it. And Toma knew, she _knew_ this man would take it as well.

 

“So sorry, Miss Shelby.” He says, just as he was about to catch her with a spittoon. “I’m Grace, by the way.”

She tilts her head, “Grace?”

“Short for Graceson,” he quirks his lips. “Is your name actually Tommy?”

“Toma,” she answers.

“What’s his name?” he points to the white horse. A recent trade from the Lee’s. “A pretty thing like that should have a name.”

“He doesn’t have a name.” Toma tells him.

“That’s a shame,” he says. All the while staring at her.

She catches his stare. “Do you have something to say to me?”

“The other night, you came to the pub. Heard me singing. Said it wasn’t allowed. I reckon there should be one night a week where there’s singing.”

“You reckon, do you?” Her tone is just at the edge; he notices.

“I think it would be good for everyone, Miss Shelby.” Grace explains, bowing his head slightly. “Saturday nights. Harry was too afraid to ask, so.”

“But you’re not?”

“I am,” his round eyes don’t leave hers. He’s brave. “But I love to sing.”

Toma licks her lips. “You sound like one of those rich boys who come from Dublin. For the races.” Grace squints his eyes, confused. “You like horses?”

“They’re nice.”

She hides a smile as she climbs up the saddle. Grace’s cheeks turn a slight rosy tone when he realizes Toma rides with her legs on each side. Hiked up skirt showing pale skin. Stockings not hiding much at all. Tommy Shelby notices the way he licks his gorgeous pink lips.

“How do you fancy making some extra money?”

He chuckles, “Doing what, exactly?”

“Get yourself a sharp suit,” she tells him, “You’re taking me to the races.”

 

Toma is not surprised that Freddie has decided to take Ada too. Ada was always the pretty one. The dazzling Shelby girl. Fun and sweet. Who wore a smile that could cure any wretched hangover. Nothing like the other one.

Freddie did stare at Ada when he thought Toma wasn’t looking. Toma saw that Ada stared right back. Yet, Toma _still_ slept with him. She was like her mother in that aspect. Never could help herself for falling for men who did not truly want her.

Perhaps Polly also understood that sentiment a little too well. Maybe that’s why she whispered Freddie’s name, when Toma confronted her about which man had knocked up her little sister. “Don’t be too hard on her, Toma,” she said, “She’s in love.”

All things considered, Toma believes she behaved the best she could. Searched for Ada to hear it from her own fucking mouth. Only told the staff to shut down the film when Ada spoke the wrong name. Shouted for the other people to leave, kicked a seat with her boot.

“I said tell me _his_ fucking name.”

Ada glared at Toma. “Freddie fucking Thorne,” she spit at her.

Her little sister. Her sweet, caring, _lovely_ sister. The girl who made Toma a crown of flowers when they were little. The woman who stood with her when Toma wouldn’t back down from Arthur’s persistent display for authority. The friend who kept her company when Freddie Thorne had inevitably broken her heart, brushing her hair from her face and refilling another glass of whiskey.

For you see, as much as Ada stayed away from the business. As much as she acted so unlike her gangster family. Her little sister still had a little bit of a Shelby in her. At times, she could be as cruel as any one of them. Just as selfish.

“Yeah. Your best mate since school! The love of your life, didn’t you once say? The man you saved your fucking life in France! So, _go on_. Go on, _cut him_! Cut him up and chuck him in the cut.”

Tommy Shelby left. Didn’t shoot Ada out of sheer willpower; that and the fact she doesn’t fucking kill pregnant women. But by God, fuck Ada fucking Shelby and Freddie fucking Thorne. _Fuck them both._

She went home and drank. Because that’s what she does best when her heart is broken.

 

Toma isn’t surprised when Polly throws a glass to the floor. The whiskey glass she was drinking from.

“Fixing races without the permission of Billy Kimber! Have I not taught you better than this? Rule one, _you don’t punch above your weight_!”

She looks at Polly, unfazed. “Billy Kimber is there for the taking.”

“Says who? Says Tommy and her parliament of one? I ran this business for five years—“

“Yeah. While I was away saving lives, remember, where I learnt some things. Such as, you strike your enemy when he’s _weak_.”

Of course, then the conversation switches to Ada. She wants Toma to give Freddie a letter. “He deserves an opportunity to do the right thing. I say we give him a chance.” Polly explains. Tommy Shelby isn’t in the mood for teenage romances.

“What do you think he sees in our Ada? I’ll tell you _what_ he sees. He sees machine guns, and riffles, and ammunition, and some glorious _fucking_ revolution.”

“Is that what you think he saw in you?”

Toma scoffs, “This isn’t about me.”

“The hell it _isn’t_. You still care about him, don’t you? Of course you do. It would be hard not to. Always planning, always fighting other boys. You two were practically joined at the hip,” her aunt touches her arm, and she hates it that it brings her comfort. “I did tell you to be careful of who to show your hear to, didn’t I?”

Toma bows her head, “You did.”

Polly comes close. “Breaking your heart. That wasn’t fair to you. And I would have gladly thrown him to the river if you had just asked… But Ada _truly_ believes Freddie will do the right thing. He’ll take responsibility. Ada loves him, Toma. And I think Freddie truly loves her too.”

 _I’m sorry he didn’t choose you_ , goes unsaid.

Tommy Shelby takes a deep breath. Clutches the letter against the furnace. “She’ll have no life with a man on the run,” she tells Polly, and is surprised how much she means it. “If you can’t see that, you can’t see much.”

She throws the letter down to the warm flames. Polly kicks the table next to her. “Damn them for what they did to you in France!”

“Tell Ada Freddie went to America. Or Russia,” Toma says to her, but her aunt keeps walking. Looks at Tommy with a look of disgust she so rarely gives. “Polly, it would do no good for Ada to bring a baby into this world alone.”

“Then I guess I’ll deal with it since Tommy fucking Shelby is so busy taking over the world.”

She walks out. Toma kicks the same fucking table.

 

The Lickey Tea Rooms. Friday. Ten o’clock.

Inspector Campbell is expecting her.

She supposes she should be wearing some sort of formal wear. A modest dress, perhaps. But he did ask to speak to the boss. And Tommy Shelby doesn’t wear dresses to fucking business meetings.

Immediately, she knows Inspector Campbell does not like her. His eyes widen, frown kept in place as Toma gets closer. He’s old-fashioned. That much is obvious. Fancy Suit. Nice tie. Poised composure. Mild sexism.

“If I didn’t have my own two eyes and somebody told me in front stood the boss of the Peaky Blinders, a little girl who fancies herself a man. I would have knocked him down for misconduct.”

Besides that, the meeting goes well. Toma makes it clear she’s a businesswoman. And in order for her business to thrive there needs to be peace. She and the Inspector can both be on the same side, if they wish to. Toma’s going to make her move on Billy Kimber. And she _needs_ for the police to turn a blind eye.

Of course, Ada’s name comes into play.

“Do you also share beds with communists, Miss Shelby? Like your own sister does?”

“I assure you, I do not share their fantasies. In or outside the bedroom. And, as for my sister, I have already dealt with the situation.”

Freddie Thorne is at the top of his list? Great. Scratch him out. If things go as planned he’s not returning to this city ever again. Makes him part of the deal. He asks for a pen? Tommy gladly gives one to him. He plays dumb about the missing guns? She stands up, making it clear she’s not here to play games. As expected, he concedes.

Toma also makes it clear that if _anything_ is to happen to her, these missing guns the Inspector wants so much? They will be shipped off to Liverpool. Sent directly to Belfast where they will be sold to the Irish Republican Army. All that good work Campbell has accomplished? _Vanished_. Just like that. His life in the force would be over.

She’ll tell him where to find the guns. _After_ Toma succeeds in what she has set out to achieve. And not before.

“You’ll be a hero. You’ll probably get a medal,” she explains, because that’s what men like him want, right? Respect and credit where it’s due. Even when it isn’t. “I’m a fair woman. It’s a fair offer. Do we have a deal?”

Campbell is _fuming_. The looking around the room. The jittering across his body. Like Arthur, he’s not used to knowing he _might_ not be good at some things. Toma has always been good at making deals. Knowing what people want, how it can favor her in return. How she can make it seem her offer is the only available option.

“I need an answer. Right _now_.”

He glares at her. Shakes his head. Like he can’t believe he’s inside one of his funny cooper jokes. _And what did the man said to the wannabe gangster? Could I search under your skirt, darling? Of course, sir. And blew his brains across the wall with the gun hidden in her stockings._

“Very well. But I’d prefer if we don’t shake hands on it.”

A smile escapes Toma’s steel porcelain face. She gets up from her chair, puts both hands in her pockets, and stands a little too close to Mister Inspector Campbell. “Now _why_ would I shake the hand of a man who didn’t even fight for his country?”

Tommy Shelby grabs her pen and walks out. Leaving Campbell with his own wretched thoughts.

 

The horse is fucking cursed. The Lee’s put a curse on the fucking horse.

“Whatever it is, it’s spread to the other feet,” Charlie says.

 _That’s what you get for getting it in bad faith._ She can hear Aunt Polly lecturing in her head.

Fuck Johnny for riding with the Lee family now. Fuck the Lee’s for calling her mother a Didicoy whore. Fuck not throwing them to the fucking river. _Fuck this whole fucking thing._

“Tommy,” Charlie says, with a softness he only shares with her. “You don’t have to… I can do it.”

“No,” she tells him. “This is my mess. And now I have to clean it up.”

Charlie nods, gets Curly out of there with his ramblings. Toma pushes her hands against her hair. Looks at the beautiful white horse standing in front of her. In pain and so, so scared. “I’m sorry,” she shushes into his hair. Toma breathes, takes out her gun, and points it in between his big dark eyes.

It’s funny. She’s never got used to _this_ kind of death. Aunt Polly is right. She’s still soft.

 

Tommy walks through the rain, right to The Garrison Pub.

“Miss Shelby,” Grace says, opening up the door. “We’re closed.”

“Just get me a drink.”

Grace puts a bottle in front of her. Toma takes it and falls into one of the nearby chairs. “Should I leave you alone?” he asks, from the other end of the bar.

“I came for the company,” Toma says, filling her glass. “Where’s Harry?”

“He took the night off. Went to the pictures.” He says, moving across the room. Toma takes a sip of her glass, watches those blue eyes as they watch her. She was wrong. Grace’s eyes aren’t _anything_ like hers. His are more vibrant. Alive. Hers are just cold. “How’s your beautiful horse?”

She chunks the whole glass down, throws her head behind. “I just put a bullet in his head.”

Toma sees that disturbs Grace. He gets a little quiet. A lot more reserved. He still sits next to her. “Was he lame?”

Tommy Shelby stares, with those cold blues of hers. “He looked at me the wrong way. It’s not a good idea to look at Tommy Shelby the wrong way.” She pours herself another glass.

Grace has his arms across his chest. “What a waste of a beautiful thing.”

“Yeah,” Toma clicks her tongue. “A waste, is what it is.” She chucks down her second glass. Stares at the other side of the room. “Do you think I’m a waste too?”

“No,” he says, his arms still crossed. “I never said that, Miss Shelby.”

“You don’t need to _say_ it, Grace. I can _see_ it.” Toma says, almost spitting the whiskey at the back of her throat. “I _see_ it everywhere I go. Those men and women who pay the Peaky Blinders for protection? They _all_ say it. Fathers warn their daughters what a life of booze and gambling would lead them to. To _this_. To _me_. See Miss Shelby over there, sweetie? Be careful, or you’ll turn out just like that waste of a woman. I _know_ they do. I’ve built this place based on these little things, Grace. I _see_ fucking everything.”

Sometimes, she wishes she wasn’t so good at these little things. Maybe life would be easier. Maybe staying in the dark and playing nice would make her happy. She snickers. _What the hell makes me happy anymore? I can’t fucking tell._

“I think,” Grace says, pouring whiskey in the glass again. “You’re a very impressive woman, Miss Shelby. A woman who has accomplished much in the world you live in. I think some of the wives that pay you? They admire you. Think to themselves _how did this one girl do so much and has these many men to fight for her?_ I think some of their daughters may even aspire to be like you. You inspire people, Miss Shelby. That’s _how_ you do it. You show that you listen. Remember when that Smith girl was attacked by some drunk bastards? How you went to her parents’ house and offered to cut those son of bitches into little pieces? How you did just that with no fee of charge? How about that pastor Jeremiah? He speaks the word of God around these filthy streets. Helps the homeless every Sunday with warm cooked meals. He’s able to do that thanks to you, isn’t he? With your gambling money. Even Harry! If you hadn’t come along he’d have probably had to shut down the place by now. He has customers every night of the week. Sells too much booze. And God knows it isn’t thanks to his charisma. No offense to the man, he’s given me a job when he didn’t have to. But a charmer he is _not_. And the drinks are the same anywhere. The competition would have killed him. You saved him from bankruptcy, Miss Shelby. That’s not a waste. Not in my eyes.”

Grace finishes that lovely speech by chunking down that awful liquor. He sets the glass down on the table. An expression of discomfort hardening his soft features. Ah, yes, he has discovered the drink isn’t sweet as much as it is strong. His blonde hair looks darker in this light. Makes him look not so young. Yet, he’s still so damn pretty.

“You really don’t belong around these parts, do you?” Toma says. “You’re too… good.”

“Too good?” He asks, mouth still working through the palette.

“Yes, _too good_. What kind of man gives a speech like that for a woman like me? You’re something else, Grace. Quite something else.”

Despite the remaining sour taste on his tongue, Grace smiles. Toma shies away. Excuses it by refilling the glass yet again. “You must have a sharp ear too, to know all these things.”

“Drunk men tell all sorts of tales about you.” Grace reveals, still smiling. “I think some of them may even be in love with you.”

She takes a sip, “But they’re too scared to make a move? Afraid I’ll cut them up and throw them in the chunk if they break my heart?”

“Perhaps,” Grace says, his leg touching hers. “I think they’re just too scared you’ll reject them.”

Toma eyes him through the glass. Keeps the eye contact while she takes it all the way down. “Not you?”

Grace shakes his head, “I don’t think I’m worthy. Quite yet.”

“Quite yet, is it?”

“Yes,” he replies.

They both grow silent, his leg still touching hers. She can feel his warmth through the fabric of her skirt. His elbows are settled on his knees. His back no longer against his chair. She realizes Grace has been keeping his eyes on her this whole time. Watching, _always_ watching. They glance down, once. Towards her own pink lips. His tongue comes out to wet his.

Toma sighs, shaking her head. She sets her glass on the table, spins it in her hand.

“Back in Frace… More men died on those medic tables than they left alive. You get used to seeing men die, Grace. Especially when you have their dried blood still in your fingers as you go to another man in need. You get used to it. As hard as it sounds. But horses… I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing horses die.”

She searches for her pocket to find a pack of cigarettes. Toma gives one to Grace. His fingers brush against hers, skin finally hitting skin. It takes him a second longer to back away. She knows it’s intentional.

“I got a suit, just like you asked,” he says, “Is it Cheltenham you’re talking about?”

Toma lights out a match, burns Grace’s first. Warm blues watch as she burns hers next.

“Cheltenham is a grand affair, is it not?” He asks, taking his first drag.

“The King will be there.”

“King George?” Grace exclaims, eyebrows going up. “ _The_ King George?”

Toma’s lips quirk up. “No. King _Billy Kimber_ , and all his men.”

“And what must I do?”

“For two pounds, you’ll do what I ask you to do.”

Grace drags his smoke. His leg still hasn’t moved his place. “I want three. If I’m meeting a King I should dress accordingly, right?” Toma tilts her head, considering. “And I asked you to let me sing. That’s part of the deal now too.”

“Since when?”

“Since you nearly smiled.” He says, doing just so. “Saturday nights, open and easy. Everyone gets to sing their song just like we did in Dublin.”

Toma stares him down. “You never worked in Dublin, so don’t lie to me.” Grace’s smile goes flat. “I asked around about that pub you said you used to work in. I have friends over there. No one has heard of you.”

His eyes go down. “Miss Shelby—“

“My guess is you’re a boy from a good family. Who got himself into trouble he shouldn’t have gotten himself into in the first place. And is now wandering about in England. Trying to find something that reminds him of home. Knowing far too well he can’t ever go back.”

Grace puts down his cigarette. “It’s not something I want known.”

“And running away ruined your life. Right?” Toma is not sure what she sees in Grace. But she takes it all the same. “So I’m right, and Polly is wrong.”

“Right about what?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Toma blows her smoke away from Grace, hating she was right.

“It looks like it matters to you.”

“Family business,” she explains, taking another drag from her cigarette.

“You won’t tell anyone my secret.” Grace says, pleading.

“Do you think I tell people things?” Toma says, “I see them. And I keep them to myself till the moment comes when I have use of them.”

“Even mine?”

“I doubt I’ll ever have to use your secret, Grace. I don’t need it to make you do what I want.” Toma shoves her knee farther into Grace’s leg. His sudden take of breath tells her everything she already knows. “So, what do you sing?”

“Anything you want.” Grace says, sparkling again.

“Right,” Toma slaps her hand on the table. “Get up on a chair.”

Grace goes to do just that. Tommy Shelby finishes her glass as he asks, “Happy or sad?”

“Sad.” She replies, watching this angel of a man high up in the sky.

“Okay. But I’ll warn you,” he tells her, so sweetly. “I’ll break your heart.”

Toma shakes her head, “Already broken.”

If Grace heard her voice waver, he doesn’t say. He does what he’s told.

Toma stays seated as the words come flowing out of him, the melancholy in Grace bleeding unto Tommy Shelby’s skin. She closes her eyes. Hangs her head back. Let’s herself be that little girl who pushed on Aunt Polly’s skirt and begged her mum to let her play in the mud with the rest of the boys. If only for a moment, she’s that little girl again. Simple and blissful. To the ways of the Shelby’s. To her mother’s anguish. To her father’s indifference. To her own gluttonous soul.

It reaches a stage where Toma’s body go limp. Relaxes. Not unlike when she’s on a saddle. A singular focus for her unrelenting, disquieting thoughts. Almost peaceful.

Grace’s voice touches her every crooked corner. And as she predicted, he takes a piece of her heart when he’s done.

**Author's Note:**

> Title of the story and chapter is from "Still Sane" by Lorde. It reminds me too much of Tommy, sorry not sorry.


End file.
